No one gets the drop on Jack Dalton. No one. Whoever set this up had been planning it for a while. Jack was known as a regular at the burger joint down the street from his apartment, which is why it was the last place he expected to be roofied. That was his first mistake, don't have patterns, don't be predictable. He couldn't help it, he'd missed the small town camaraderie he'd known growing up.

Los Angeles wasn't exactly small town, but the staff at the restaurant recognized him - the guy with the wrist cuf that ordered either a double cheeseburger or a chicken sandwich accompanied by "whatever domestic draft was tapped most recently," or a Jameson and with grenadine. The grenadine was the key to getting the drop on Jack. It was easy to switch out the simple bottle with one laced with rohypnol. Obviously the bad guys didn't care if some kid's Shirley Temple was spiked, that's just collateral damage easily slept off and never given a second thought. No one in the restaurant had even noticed the switcharoo or the bar patron who had done it when the bartender went to the back for a new box of swizzle sticks.

Jack fumbled the keys to the door lock outside his apartment. The Jameson should not have hit him that hard, he only had one drink. His assailant only needed him impaired, less able to fight back effectively. Jack became immediately suspicious of his condition when the front door started to wiggle in front of his eyes. He gripped the knob to steady the door that wasn't actually moving. He shoved the key into the lock aggressively, hoping to will away the dizziness and confusion trying to take him down. Once he stumbled through the threshold, he slammed and locked the door behind him, tossing his keys into the punch bowl on the kitchen bar. He missed his target by a significant distance, and his keys ended up in the garbage disposal in the sink. He felt an instinctive need to clear his apartment and went for his gun inside his jacket.

He slipped his hand inside the black leather jacket and forgot why he was reaching for his gun, he was at home. Home, keys and wallet go in the bowl, jacket on the coat rack. Thinking he must have been going for his wallet, he grabbed it and tossed it to the punch bowl…actually in the general area of the punch bowl, more like at the fridge where it bounced across the floor and under the dishwasher. Continuing his routine, he shrugged his restrictive jacket halfway down his biceps when his assailant seized this opportunity to grab Jack from behind. Jack struggled to fight back, but his arms were stuck inside his jacket and wrenched behind his back. Jack flung his shoulders forcefully from side to side, hoping to throw his captor off balance to escape, but he only managed to stumble backward into the other man. The assailant took a step back to further disorient Jack as he struggled frantically, swinging his arms trying to grab his captor. Jack roared in frustration and bucked backward, but he was no match for the other person. He grabbed Jack firmly around the chest with one large arm and held the other hand over Jack's mouth and nose. Jack squirmed and yelled, but his muffled screams were lost in the chloroform covered cloth as Jack sank into unconsciousness. Jack was dropped to the floor and relieved of his weapon still inside his jacket and also searched for additional weapons.

Jack's captor left through the fire escape and returned to the front door shortly after clad in dark blue coveralls with a dishwasher box on a dolly. Jack hadn't moved and hadn't been expected to, but was kicked in the ribs just to make sure. After getting no response, the captor hefted Jack up and over his shoulder, then dropped him carelessly into the empty box, arms pinned under his own body. After quick reconsideration, Jack was lifted back out and draped over the side of the wooden crate enclosed in the appliance box so Jack's hands and ankles could be zip tied and bound together before being sealed in the box and wheeled to the moving truck waiting outside.

Jack woke up to darkness; he blinked hard several times, squeezing his eyes shut tight and opening them wide just to make sure they were actually open. He waited a moment for them to adjust to the darkness but they never did. Jack was trained for this, but his head was pounding and his body was tight. Not tight, more like stuck. He tried to move his arms, but his hands were behind his back, bound tightly together. While attempting to pull his knees toward his chest, he noticed that his wrists were uncomfortably attached to his ankles which were also bound together. Ugh, blind and immobile. Aware of his handicaps, he needed to check his assets. He was on his side with his hands and arms stuck behind him, so he felt what was around him, jeans, t-shirt, ring, boots, no jacket, no watch, no armband. At least he wasn't naked.

Now the question was where. It was too dark to see anything, so he moved his head in a circular motion to feel what was nearby. Bumping into nothing, he rapped his knuckles onto whatever flat surface he was lying on. Wood, pressure treated, splintery. Like a warehouse shipping pallet. He rolled to his back and was stopped by a wall or something to his side. More of the same wood. He rolled in the other direction until he was stopped by the other side by his knees. Figuring his enclosure was about 3 feet by 3 feet, he laid on his back to find the top. He wasn't sure if he was alone, so instead of yelling to find the top of the box with an echo, he filled his lungs with air and blew as hard as he could. He didn't feel any of the wind come back his direction, so he had hope that this was some sort of open pen that he could knock over. Fairly certain that he was alone at this point, he called out quietly, "hello?" A little louder, "is anybody out there?" The acoustics confirmed that he was indeed inside a wooden box. Again.

With no light seeping in through the small cracks of the wooden box, he deduced that the wooden box was inside of something else and moving based on the occasional bumps and jostles. He focused on the outside noises, muffled by the box and the sound of his own heart beating in his ear. He listened for a while, narrowing down his mode of transport. Not a plane, no change in air pressure. Not a train, based on the shocks. It sounded like a diesel engine, not in traffic, but on an open highway.

For every puzzle he solved, he felt like two more were introduced. Why was he in a box and where was he going? Who took him? It was Mac's job to figure this stuff out, where was he? Was Mac ok? Jack's recollection of the last few hours was spotty at best. He wasn't with Mac, he hadn't seen him since the debrief the day before; he was alone. Why was he having so much trouble remembering? He remembered doing some laundry and having some lunch, but everything after that was fuzzy. He wasn't even sure what day it was anymore much less how long he'd been out. Regardless of any of that, he was a sitting duck. It was time to take action.

Jack pulled his ring off and pushed it halfway down his index finger, scraping the more jagged parts of his gaudy accessory against the zip tie holding his wrists together. It wouldn't be a quick process, but any attempt was better than nothing. He figured if he could score it enough with the ring, maybe he would be able to break it eventually.

The passage of time was impossible to measure in the silent darkness, only quantified by the number of times he scraped the ring against the plastic binding his wrists before his hand cramped and he had to stop to stretch his fingers out. He repeated that cycle at 8 times before he was finally able to break the zip tie. With a triumphant yelp, he unfolded himself into a seated position. Jack stretched his back out with a deep groan and extended his arms above his head until his knuckles made contact with the top of the box. He pushed on the wood to see how secure the lid was, confirming then that he was stuck a little while longer.

Jack wasn't quite sure what his escape plan was once he got his hands free, but he needed to consider his status with now functioning arms into his plan. Plan A) free his ankles and kick his way out of the box, then fight his way to freedom. Plan B) if he runs out of time for either part of plan B, hide in the box and then fight his way out using the element of surprise.

He scratched and picked at the plastic binding his ankles, but the truck stopped for longer than it had yet since he'd been awake. He worked faster at the zip tie, but wasn't able to break it before he heard a metal rollup door open. Jack laid back down in the box on his side with his thumbs looped into the plastic fastened around his ankles.

He closed his eyes and let his head droop to the floor when he heard someone start to pry the lid off. Two sets of arms grabbed him by the armpits and pulled him from the box. He listened carefully, trying to count voices and footsteps to figure out how many he was up against. Four, maybe 5? Jack's eyes snapped open and he sprung up from the ground, throwing punches at the nearest person. He knocked the first one out instantly by breaking is nose with a punch. The second with a headbutt to the face, but without the use of his legs, Jack was easily knocked to the ground from behind. He rolled to his back and kicked the next encroaching assailant in the stomach. Whatever they had planned for him, he wasn't going without a fight. He effectively defeated 3 of the 5, but the 4th pulled back the hammer on his gun, a sound well known to Jack. That guy was definitely not within kicking distance, so Jack put his hands out to his side in surrender.

Footsteps echoed from behind Jack, a slow cadence accompanied by a slow clap. "This is why you are the bodyguard."

He knew the voice before the face even came into view, "El Noche."